Trust Issues

My new employment position affords me a glimpse inside an often disturbing situation. The most vulnerable sector of society is being beaten, molested, neglected and my job deals with those cases on a daily basis. It's heart-breaking, yes. But I am also witness to a group of dedicated people who want only for the child to heal and the perpetrator to be accountable. They work tirelessly to ensure the absolute best for the child and operate in concert with agencies such as law enforcement, the district attorney's office and the department of human services toward that goal.

I've learned a lot in a short amount of time. I've learned that emotions have no place in a case review. That what may seem like an insensitive moniker for a victim, is really the worker's best attempt at not getting too emotionally involved. I've learned that when a foster home isn't immediately available for an infant, someone from my office takes that baby home until a space is found. I've learned that most children have no concept of body safety and don't understand that their bodies belong to them. I've learned, sadly, that many children do not have adults in their lives that they
trust. One boy stated that he didn't "trust anybody, especially adults, because that's how you really get hurt!"

Over dinner the other night, I asked The Pie about body safety and trust issues. I asked what she thought she might do if someone tried to touch her bits (slang for her private parts, but she does know the clinical term). "Kick him in the nuts!" Other options were: "Bite him!" and "Throat punch!" It does my heart good to know that she pays attention. I've threatened all of those options in various past situations. When I asked her if she had any adults in her life that she trusted, she got a far away look on her face and after a few seconds began to name them all, starting with me. I admit that I was glad to hear that she trusts me, but even more so to hear the names of all the other adults she feels comfortable sharing a secret or an issue with. It did not escape my notice that every person she named is a woman, since she has very little regular interaction with men.  The only men she sees daily is our next door neighbor, our neighbor across the street and her music teacher at school. I was also heartened to hear that one of the women is her 4th grade teacher this year. Not since kindergarten has she bonded so well and so quickly with a teacher, so I'm hopeful that she will have an enjoyable school year.

The Pie later shared with me that she asked a friend about adults she trusted (she declined to tell me which friend, but I have it narrowed down to two) and her friend's answer was, "No." She shared this with me because she said it made her sad that her friend didn't have an adult to go to when she is hurt or upset or sad. I start to explain that so many of our kids today have been wounded by the adults in their lives, some kids no longer naturally trust adults. Then she interrupts and says, "But I told her she could always trust you, Mom!"

High praise, indeed!

Welfare State

Without being too political, I want to state that I believe it's important to help those less fortunate than ourselves. It's behooves us, as a human race, to provide assistance to those who are struggling. I feel that way because I was one of those people.

From the moment she was born, The Pie has been on state medical insurance. Sure, it's free medical and dental care, but it is limited and practically everything must be approved before treatment. It's the best I could do for her at the time and I was thankful to have it. When I could no longer nurse her, WIC was a life saver. The organization provided formula for her and healthy foods for me.

Seven years ago, I found myself unemployed and the sole provider for a two year-daughter. Support from the sperm donor was nowhere near an option, so in addition to applying for unemployment benefits, I also applied for food stamps - what they now call Nutrition Assistance. I was aware of the negative connotation associated with using government assistance, but I had lost almost everything - including my pride - and I needed help. Friends and family helped out as they could by paying a bill here and there, which was so greatly appreciated, and I visited food pantries in the community, but we needed more.

When I moved back home to care for my ailing father, I  added Medicaid to my list of government assistance. Being unable to work meant not having insurance, but I had medical issues that precluded me from just going without. Again, it was free medical insurance, but there were always strings attached. Society, whether intentional or not, makes us feel like we are "less than" if we take advantage of those "welfare" benefits. It's embarrassing and frustrating. But poverty is like that.

I witnessed someone take advantage of the system for years. With two young children, she received free medical insurance, food stamps, housing money and other assistance - all while not working. One career or technical school after another - without completion - kept her in the cycle. But I noticed that it was too easy. There was no motivation for her to change the situation. She was trapped into making welfare a lifestyle.

Almost two years ago, when Dad passed away, I knew some changes were needed. I created a "step-down" program of sorts to get off of public assistance and back to being a productive member of society. I went back to work full-time, got medical insurance and was able to reduce the amount of nutrition assistance I received. For 18 months, I struggled to make ends meet, sometimes juggling bills from one due date to another, all the time worrying about putting gas in the car or clothes on The Pie. I very nearly lost our home. But it was the kindness and generosity of friends near and far that kept me on track. Their support, their encouragement, their tough love and guidance were what helped me get through.

Now, I'm back on track. In one week, The Pie and I will officially be free of ALL government assistance. My new job provides excellent family insurance for us, pays very well (more than I have ever made) - enough that we no longer qualify as living at the poverty level. No more free school lunch, no more food stamps, no more Medicaid.  To me, this is an accomplishment. It took hard work to get to this point. And I'm proud of the fact that I am able to tell my story. Some people never find the wherewithal to walk away from welfare. Government restrictions for the assistance create impenetrable walls that simply serve to trap people in its clutches, not allowing an opportunity to do better.

I don't have any answers about how to make it better - I leave that to the politicians. What I do know, however, is that one person cannot do it alone. It takes a strong support system, providing motivation and praise, to get across that line. That damned poverty line.

It's Good to Be Back

For months, I toiled in misery at a job I despised for the sole reason of making money to pay bills. I left a position that was somewhat flexible and allowed me a little bit of independence and went directly to a job that kept track of every single minute of my day. EVERY. SINGLE. MINUTE.

Circumstances were such that I wanted a change and thought the call center job sounded much less demanding and certainly would allow me to be home more for The Pie.  It did, but it was also draining my intellect at a rapid rate. I knew on the second day of training that I needed to get out and I set in motion a plan to do just that. Thankfully, the plan finally came to fruition.

Almost a month ago, I left that horrible job and started working at a job I love. I now have a position with a local non-profit organization that works with abused children. Instead of making sales in a call center environment, I'm making a difference in my community. It is important to me to work in a field that is respected and that is fulfilling to me as a human being. I don't want to be a faceless number to my employer, I want to be a contributing member of a team working toward a common goal.  I'm thrilled to have found my niche.

The Pie is happy, too. She has said numerous times that she is happy I got "the great job." She could tell from my episodes that I dreaded going to work every day, that I hated sitting on the phones for 8 hours, that I did nothing meaningful. She said just yesterday that she was glad we could laugh together again. That made me get teary because I had to wonder how long it had been since we had actually laughed together.

Here's another thing: my salary increased by just over 1/3 of what I have been making. That translates to a more stable financial situation for the two of us. Immediate concerns are paying what is most behind, but as time goes by, we will be able to save and plan for The Pie's future instead of just wonder how we can get food on the table for a couple of days.

Most importantly, The Pie and I are now completely off any state assistance and are self-sufficient. Since her birth, The Pie has been on state Medicaid and now I can afford to provide insurance for her through my employer. She no longer qualifies for the free lunch program due to my salary and though we have been slowly downsizing the amount of food stamps we received, we are no longer are eligible for that assistance. I am a believer in the "welfare system" and a hand up to help those in trouble bridge the gap. I've witnessed many people turn it into a lifestyle and be proud of it, but not I. I am excited to announce that those days are behind me.

It was worth the wait. What's important to note is that I did what I HAD to do until I could do what I WANTED to do. I worked in a crappy job, I tolerated crappy treatment, degrading comments, strict time allotments and host of other issues and worked in the mean time to get where I wanted to be.

TOTALLY worth it.

Before You Speak

When you’re sad and depressed, people always try to cheer you up or offer sentiments of encouragement. I love those people; and while I do appreciate the thought behind the statements, I get irritated by the fact that social convention prevents me responding with my true thoughts or feelings.

For example, when someone says to me: “Everything happens for a reason.” I want to say, “Yeah, because I made a really stupid decision and set in motion a course of events that sent me spiraling into a miasma of self-loathing and unmitigated fear.” But I usually, say, “That’s so true.” Thanks for basically saying I was supposed to go through this tragic situation. Yes, I understand the message, but please don't say this when my pain is still fresh. It usually doesn't help.

Or when they say, “Hang in there!” I fight the urge to respond with, “You betcha! I’ll tie a noose in that rope, slip my head in there and hang like snot from a toddler’s nose.”  But I typically just nod my head and mutter, “Thanks.”

How about this gem: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I get the sentiment behind the statement. And I agree that some trials do serve to teach us lessons and give us strength. However, it has evolved into a statement that connotes the idea that in order to be strong, we have to ultimately fend off death. ACTUAL death! In some cases, I would rather hold hands and play footsy with the Grim Reaper than deal with the crap sandwich currently on my plate!

Here’s a good one: “God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.” Here’s the thing - I don’t believe God is the cause of pain, loss, hate and sadness. I’d like to think that God is not somewhere cackling maniacally and rubbing his hands together in a classic Machiavellian fashion, thinking, “Let’s see if she can handle THIS!” There are people who can’t handle it. I’m one of them. That’s why I’ve shut down. And it’s not encouraging to say this awful event is my prize in life for being a strong person.

A friend of mine (who happens to be a Lutheran minister) recently reached out to me regarding my shutting down. Not once, did he mention that if I “let go and let God”, things would get better. He didn’t say to “place it in the Lord’s hands” or offer clichés or platitudes. What he did help me understand is that sometimes people lose their joy when they feel like they’ve given everything they have. He mentioned combat veterans and caretakers as two primary examples.

The thing is, I have slowly sunk to the point of not caring about anything. The Pie basically takes care of herself now and when I’m not at the job I loathe, I watch television. I recently started watching Breaking Bad on Netflix, and must admit that I considered participating in illegal behavior to get out of my financial abyss. But then, I realized that it’s fiction. So, rest assured that cooking meth is not a viable avenue for my future. If there IS a future, that is.

I am so blinded by the financial ruin and debt that suffocates me that I can’t see past the moment. Try as I might to apply all those inspirational and encouraging phrases in my life, I am unable to feel hope that it will get better. I worry about how I can properly parent my daughter when I just. Don’t. Care. Will there be a time when I can find joy in the little things…in ANY thing? 

Social Chamelons

What’s so bad about being who you really are? Why do we feel such a powerful pull to act, dress, speak like someone we aren’t when we are with other people? I think everyone is guilty of it to some degree, but those who make it a lifestyle simply baffle me. In fact, it creates in me a level of distrust of that person. My best friend, The Pie’s Favorite Aunt, is still the exact same person I met over 22 years ago. Her personality remained the same through massive weight loss, getting married, enduring major surgeries. She has met and mingled with people from all walks of life, with different backgrounds and experiences, but SHE has remained the same. And I think it’s because she really likes herself, as silly and “self-help book” as that might sound.

It’s true, being comfortable with our personalities can be a real challenge because I think that, at our core, we want to be liked or loved. The motivation to be liked quickly overcomes our need to be ourselves, so we transform into what other people expect us to be. If we spend an inordinate amount of time around people who flagrantly use foul language, that trait will slowly seep into our subconscious and eventually become part of our daily self. If we work with people who imbibe alcohol at every possible moment, and always join in those activities, it changes our chemistry, literally, into something that we are not. Conversely, if we spend time with intellectual, cultured and clever people, we can learn myriad ideas, philosophies and concepts that can change our lives. What’s important, I believe, is that we remain true to ourselves – not turn into social chameleons.

Urban Dictionary defines a social chameleon as such:

social chameleon

Someone who changes the way they interact with people depending on who they're with.

 

Do you know someone like this? Are YOU someone like this? I’m not talking about behaving appropriately in varied situations – like a job interview, bachelor party or afternoon tea – but changing the essence of who we are just to accommodate the person or group of people whose company you happen to be in. I think the reason why it bothers me so much is that I see this behavior in people I care about and was shocked when I first witnessed it. It was almost as if I was sitting across from a stranger. It forced me to question who that person REALLY was: the filthy-mouthed drunk begging for attention that sat before me, or the sweet, caring mother I knew her to be from years of friendship.

No one wants to be rejected, I get that. I’ve always said that I can handle rejection, it’s humiliation that kills me. But we should all be our authentic selves; otherwise, how would we know if it’s us they like or like the façade we present?

I Am an Addict Part Two

I realized early in my life that I have an addictive personality. You know how you do one funny thing for a toddler and they just keep saying, “Again”? That’s me – but I never grew out of it. I embraced that need for repetition and ran with it for 50 years!  I’ve smoked for almost all of my adult life and that is most certainly an addiction! My addiction to food is obvious and insidious; I was addicted to television shows, foods, sex, people…I think it gave me a sense of comfort and familiarity that I longed for as a child.

What I did NOT become addicted to was recreational drugs. Looking back, I realize that I could be telling a very different story today. I never tried cocaine or crack or crank or anything that required me to snort or inject. How undignified! I did smoke marijuana a few times in college, but I never cared for the loss of control I felt when I did. I sampled variously colored amphetamine tablets – which were GREAT for losing weight, but I eventually grew fatigued by the constant head itch that resulted from it. I took Ecstasy one time. ONE TIME! That singular incident proved to me one thing: I was doomed to be Ecstasy’s slave if only I took it one MORE time.

 

I am not necessarily a devotee of the whole “life in moderation” philosophy.  As an only child, adopted by older parents, I benefitted from their attention and am the first to admit I was (or am) spoiled. Growing up, I wanted EVERYTHING and my parents did the best they could to provide EVERYTHING for me. But I didn’t learn how to moderate. Anything. Not my food, my fun, my voice, my thoughts.

For much of my life, I felt like a fraud. I behaved differently depending on the environment, company or activity with which I was involved. So when the opportunity to feel better about myself presented itself in such a tempting and convincing way, I didn’t want to miss the chance.  Over 15 years later, as I roamed Earth in the form of a “PharmaZombie,” I reluctantly agreed to face my life without medications ruling it.

I began the process of detoxing from Effexor back in November 2015; a gradual step-down in small dosages. The change caused only slight symptoms, but nothing unmanageable or debilitating. I would feel the occasional weakness of limbs, or a little light-headedness upon standing, but to me it was ok. Then the Big Jump happened. First, flu-like symptoms presented themselves with a vengeance. The transition from 150 mg to 75 mg felt akin to participating in the Pamplona running of the bulls: my adrenaline shot off the charts, I was disoriented, panicked, confused and fell down a lot! My heart raced and my senses were heightened to the extreme power; I had brain shivers, where I could barely pronounce my own name. My eyes made squeaking noises when I blinked; I could hear my eyeballs move around inside my head!! With every movement, I heard tiny little ninja noises: ‘whoosh, whish, whoosh.”  The sound of my own voice in my head nauseated me so that I stopped speaking to anyone for one entire day. All I dreamed of was laying perfectly still inside a cool, dark room.

For a period of about nine days, I barely functioned. I have no clear memory of that time in which I drove to work, spent eight hours at the office, drove home and took care of my child. It’s entirely possible that there was a night or two that The Pie had to microwave corn dogs herself for dinner!

After researching ways to manage the symptoms of Effexor withdrawal, I read articles about flushing the toxin out of my system.  I debated about all the options within my budget and eventually found something no too terribly distasteful.  A nifty cocktail of Omega-3 fish oil and a B-Complex vitamin, combined with a natural mood booster eased the symptoms within the first two days of taking them. 

At first, I thought there was NO WAY that some vitamins would do anything to ease my mildly homicidal urges or calm my unexpected sobbing jags. Which is why I know it was not a placebo effect – I had no faith in it whatsoever and it worked anyway! The B-Complex gives me energy and is fortified with Vitamin C which helps fight off yucky germ invasions. The fish oil has no identifiable effect, but it seems to work well with the B-Complex. The mood booster is a variety of things with names that sound foreign, but I will attest to its assistance in managing my mood.

My ultimate goal is to live completely without pharmaceuticals of any kind, unless I become seriously ill. I hated being dependent on daily medication – a slave to pills! I still have a few unexplained crying episodes, but I attribute it to being fully engaged with my emotions again. My temper is admittedly much shorter now that it was, but I just have to remind myself to breathe before I react.

Some of my friends have never known me without the medication and will be probably be confused and a little nervous in my presence. But for those who have been around for the long haul…”I’m baaaaack!”

 

 

I Am an Addict Part One

I’ve tried to ignore the truth for far too long. But now, in the midst of a wildly spectacular spiral of fear and shame of withdrawal, I accept that I am an addict. My drug of choice, however, is nothing so scandalous as alcohol, heroin, cocaine or meth (I do not intend to offend or minimize those who fight the battle with these substances - addiction is universal); the monkey on my back is a drug prescribed to me by a medical professional over 15 years ago as a way to help me live a normal, happy life. This week, Effexor ruined my life.

Allow me to indulge in a little literary device known as back-story:  My regular physician retired a few months ago and a young whippersnapper, who had only recently gotten a white coat, bought the practice. Our first meeting was pleasant enough and he refilled all the usual suspect pharmaceuticals that were part of my daily regimen for years. But only for one month. He lulled me into a false sense of security, thinking I could just blissfully carry on taking government approved poisons for the rest of my days. But he fooled me!

At my next appointment, he explained to me, in soothing tones, how he didn’t feel that I should be taking as many medications as I was at the time, especially the anxiety/depression medication known in user circles as Effxor, and widely known as Venlafaxine. He created a plan to step me down from the medication that would have me pharmaceutical free in three months.  “How lovely,” I thought. No concern of whether or not food or water would be available to take a pill. No adhering to a strict time table of when to ingest certain medicines. Sounded a lot like Heaven. What I got was a whole lot of Hell!

My first prescription for Effexor came in 1999 during a somewhat stressful time. I worked for a highly respected local private school, in the fine arts department and was elbow deep in planning a HUGE arts festival that drew over 3,000 to our campus.  I love artists (I AM one!), but I do not love trying to get them to be organized or meet deadlines. My sweet and long-suffering boss at the time was very understanding and often threw himself on my grenade of a temper when dealing with those free-spirited Bohemians! Several days in a row, I came home and cried. And cried and cried and cried. My roommate lost her patience with me regularly and once, when she, asked, “What the hell are you crying about NOW?” upon seeing my reaction a Hallmark commercial, I knew something was very wrong with me.

It wasn’t until a day about two weeks after that incident that I found myself wanting to hurt something or someone. Rage consumed me so that I was unfit to be in the company of humans – even managed to threaten a coworker at one point! I had gone to grab lunch, and on the way back didn’t quite make the green light. My next memory is of horns honking at me as I banged my hands and head against the steering wheel of my vehicle. I drove to my doctor’s office and waited until he had time to see me. He gave me a quiz (EXACTLY how I wanted to spend my time inside a murderous rage) and determined that I had issues with anxiety and depression. (DUH!)  He patted my head and sent me on my way to the pharmacy with a prescription for Effexor in my tightly clenched hand.

Within a week, I felt better – better about my life, my job, and my relationships – about everything! I no longer felt encumbered by fear, constantly worrying about how something would go wrong and I would break down. Things were good. Until they weren’t.

Over the ensuing decade and a half, my dosage would increase every couple of years until as of late 2015, I was taking more than 6 times my original dosage. I didn’t really see any problem. I managed to coast through the last five years pretty well, only occasionally really feeling the crunch. I mentioned to the new doctor that the Effexor was what I attributed to keeping me sane during the five years caring for my father, the last days of his life and, ultimately, his passing.  When he asked me to name the feelings I experienced, I discovered that while I could produce the words from my lexicon – sadness, grief, loss, anger, joy, love -  I wasn’t actually feeling those emotions. I felt…nothing.

My every reaction was flat. While on the outside, I appeared to react appropriately to a situation, on the inside, nothing really registered. I discussed with Dr. Whippersnapper what to expect with the change in the medication, but he kept repeating, “It will all be worth it in the end.”

What do you think he meant by that?

 

 

 

Stay tuned for Part Two of I Am an Addict.